


Later

by TheWanderingAlias



Series: Every P.O One-Shot I Wrote Last Summer [8]
Category: Block B
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 10:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16870915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWanderingAlias/pseuds/TheWanderingAlias
Summary: In which he is broken and won’t let you fix him





	Later

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot was inspired by the controversy that took place in 2012, as, hopefully, most of you BBCs know, was probably the lowest of low for the guys. There was an interview in Thailand, and some stuff was regrettably said and done, and Block B received a lot of hate for it. Death threats particularly. P.O was diagnosed with a type of schizophrenia caused by stress. It was a hard time for all of them. So of course, the diligent writer of P.O scenarios I am, this one goes out to any of you who wished to comfort him in the time of need. But again, it is an angst. You have been warned~

The air was littered with particles of dust, floating and falling and only seen through the slivers of light from the window. You were standing in front of his door. Actually, you had been standing in front of his door for over five minutes now. Part of you wanted to cry for him. Part of you wanted to cry with him. And the other parts wanted you to drive back home and ignore the ordeal entirely. But your heart clenched every second you avoided it. 

 

Your hand rose for the sixth time, tentatively knocking against the wooden panel, wondering if he would actually be capable of answering then. Your lip caught between your teeth, nervousness flooding within you like a monsoon of anxiety. There was silence. Absolute silence. You briefly debated knocking louder, or even walking away and trying again later. But then, the handle turned, but not as slow as the time it took for the door to actually open. You weren’t quite sure what you were expecting to see, but the sight of him almost made you sob. This wasn’t him. This couldn’t be him.

 

Your palm met his cheek so gently, wordlessness escaping your lips, and he only casted his shadowed-eyes downward like he stared into a pit of nothing. You said his name softly, but he didn’t register it. You didn’t say it again. You enveloped him with your arms and forced your face into his chest, and he made no movement. Console him, you begged yourself, console him and tell him to smile again, that the doctors say it is only temporary. 

 

He pushed against you, numbly, and it took you a moment to realize he was beginning to close the door again. You pressed forward, and he backed away. But he never met your eyes. You whispered his name, a tear freely rolling down your cheek. He turned. “Go away.” Stated simply, and you breathed in sharply.

 

“No.”

 

“Please.” 

 

“No.”

 

His eyebrow twitched in twinge of anger, something he’d never shown you. You pressed on, moving for him, clutching the back of his shirt so he couldn’t run away anymore.

 

“You’re not sick.”

 

“I am.”

 

“It’s because of the stress. It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“It was.”

 

“Listen to me—”

 

“Listen to me!” He whirled around, fresh, hot tears melting down his cheeks, and he grabbed your shoulders, his face close and tired and so sad. “People are telling me to die! People want me to die, and they’re telling me to do it myself! I don’t want this—” He crumbled, bringing you with him. “I don’t want this!” He sobbed aloud, his grip faltering so he could bury his face in his palms. He collapsed completely onto his knees and cried out. You smoothed circles onto his back.

 

“I need help! I need so much help! I don’t know what to do, I don’t want to die!” The pain in his voice broke you and your arms held him close as he wracked with heaving sobs. You knew it wasn’t the first time he acted that way. You’d hear him down the hall, when the members tried coercing him into leaving. When his family phoned him. When he was all alone and still stricken by death threats—and his medication. 

 

“You won’t die,” You said with a hic. He erupted beneath you.

 

“What do you know?! Maybe someone will kill me, if I don’t end up doing it myself!” Frustration bubbled within you. 

 

“Shut up!” You yelled. He didn’t. He seemed to not even notice, too isolated at mind, as though he was saying all those things to himself. You hugged harder.

 

“You’re just pitying me like the rest of them! ‘Cause I’m the youngest and I can’t handle this on my own!” You shook your head in some type of disbelief, willing the old him to return, the old, smiling, giddy, hyper him. He was nowhere to be found. He trembled  
again. “You’re no help to me. Just leave.” 

 

You stayed. Silent.

 

“Leave me alone! I hate you!” He didn’t, and you knew it, but you flew backward as he lifted himself, the circles around his eyes even darker with the room’s lighting. He roared for you to leave, but you remained with your back on the floor. You didn’t want to. You couldn’t. He tore his sight from the wall back to you and released a strained groan. Like he was done with your shit. But you didn’t move. “I’m not leaving.”

 

“Go, now.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

He glared darkly, something you definitely never saw before, his disheveled blonde hair half-blocking his eyes. His lunged for you, fingers around your wrists, flinging you from the carpet so you stood on your own two feet. A single breath escaped you before you found yourself being lifted out of the doorway.

 

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” He was crying harder than he was screaming, placing you out of arms reach so you couldn’t stop him again. The door slammed, you cursed everyone who ruined his life, and you sighed. 

 

Maybe you should come back later.


End file.
